You may remember, a while back, I posted about a charity walk I decided to join in with for our local hospice. It’s a 6 mile walk through and around the centre of Bury St Edmunds, wearing flashing bunny ears and my pyjamas. Obviously I’m a middle aged lardette with completely fucked knees so this, for me, is … a suitable challenge. Indeed, my knees were so shite I cannot actually run, not even, literally, to save my life (well … it was my son’s but that’s another story). Although I can walk quite briskly, and I can ride a bike. However, even so, what I’m saying is, I had clocked that if I wanted to walk 6 miles I should probably do some training but at the same time, I was thinking, it’s only six miles, what can go wrong? Quite a lot of things it turns out.

Time, like gravity, has not been my friend on this one and I suddenly realise that the walk is tonight – as ever is. Waterproofs optional but probably required. Note to self, don’t forget the light up stars umbrella.

And guess how much training I’ve done.

Mmm hmm.

In my defence, it was the summer holidays and I did go for a fair few walks, even if I couldn’t get to the gym, but then I got hit by a galloping dog which is surprisingly painful: similar results to a medium/hard cart horse kick although a friend of a friend ended up with a broken leg so I probably got off lightly. It resulted in an impressive 8″x4″ oblong bruise and some pain. While avoiding full impact with the dog I, unfortunately, did something to my hip. So when I went on holidays, where we were going to do a fair bit of walking, the hip based ‘something’ manifested itself, loudly, through the medium of pain. I grimly gritted my teeth and carried on and the pain got worse. Obviously, because I’m a hypo, I convinced myself that the dog bruise had resulted in dvt. I went to the Doctor when I got home.

Actually, I’ve just pulled a muscle in my hip. So obviously I wasn’t being a drama queen about that or anything.

Never mind, my legs hurt all the time and there aren’t many hills, I thought. Surely I can limp round. So I have rested it all week.

A yes, the week’s ‘rest’. Now this is the kind of punishing training schedule I’m talking about.

As the crowning glory of my ‘preparation’. Last night, I went to bed early so that at least, if I wasn’t ready, I was fresh.

But unfortunately, I woke up almost immediately and then, in tag team with my son, spent the rest of the night enjoying some vile sweatathon chuck up bug which involved much enthusiastic driving of the porcelain bus. McOther blissfully slept through it all. Indeed at one point, I woke up on the bathmat in the bathroom – because I’d felt too sick to move back to the bed – bathed in sweat, face stuck to said mat with a pool of my own drool, to hear my son calling me. I called out to McOther, but all that did was bring McMini to our bedroom and from there to the ensuite, where he was treated to the joyous sight of his mother shouting ‘Europe!’ down the big white telephone while trying to hold her hair out of the way of the technicolour torrent, while at the same time, avoid getting any on her pyjamas or the lavatory seat.

On the upside, when I’d finished, I felt so much better and at least I could leave the bathroom long enough to take him upstairs and tuck him in, after which, everyone in the house went to sleep in their own beds until morning.

As McMini started his chuckathon a bit earlier than me he was, as he put it, ‘full of beans’ when he woke up while I definitely felt a bit ropey. However, after a very pleasant hour spent with him, sitting in my bed together reading and … well … he’s 8 so I’m afraid he was also comparing the intensity of our farts – his were smellier so he thinks he’s been iller than me … he’s gone to football club. Meanwhile I, I have gone to ground. Even the cat has let me sit here unmolested so I must look grim although I am feeling a little better.

If the walk had been this morning, I confess, I would have been in trouble. As it is, I’m sure I’ll be fine by tonight although I might give the bacon buttie and the pub at the end a miss. Most of these things only last a day or so. But with the Olympics just finished, and the Paralympics in full swing, it did make me realise how hard it must be for real sportsmen and women when they prepare for their events. All those hours spent training, the special diets, the sleep regimen, trying to time it so they achieve peak fitness on that one specific day and then the big event comes and they have a cold, or a period or a sick bug and suddenly their performance is 10 or 20 percent down or they can’t even compete and it’s all been for nothing. It just makes me admire their dedication and discipline even more than I did before because even after that, despite preparing for every eventuality, they are still at the mercy of random factors.

If you want to donate anything to the hospice for my undertaking this moronic exercise, you’re welcome to do so. I have raised £150 so far, most of it off internet, so at least I’ve reached the minimum target. You can find my just giving page here:

My cat has just typed this \\\\\\\\\\\\\\ which is clearly what he thinks of the whole thing and I feel like a gentle snooze with something warm on my stomach so I’m going to follow his example and get some serious rest in.

15 responses to “The difference between intention and delivery. How not to prepare for a charity walk. #girlsnightout”

Has anyone ever mentioned the letters TMI to you? But as we’re on the subject, when I’m in vomit mode, I retire gracefully to the sofa with a handy sized sick bucket and puke into that. So much more civilised than kneeling on the cold tiled bathroom floor (could I get up again?) and I can just flop on the sofa afterwards. Of course, a one-bed flat is somewhat different to a house.
Anyway, I wish to complain. Why was my broken ankle not mentioned in the galloping dog references? It was extremely bad, as my consultant endlessly told me, my peri-op fracture blisters were of great interest, and I bored for Gibraltar about it on my blog.
I couldn’t walk six miles. One or two is still my limit. Hopefully I’ll get better over winter.
If you don’t complete it, do we get our money back? Only joking! Seriously, don’t push yourself if your knees/hip/anything else starts giving you grief. You have enough on your plate without knocking yourself out.

No, I called the obedient dog and waited for him to come trotting up behind me. Unfortunately he came in a full-on charge and cannoned right into my left leg. I suspect there is as much chance that he broke the ankle as the fall did. Talk about having your legs taken from under you. Most dogs run hellish fast if they want, but hunting dogs … a greyhound mix … you can imagine the impact!

Blimey! Yes I can. Mine was a Labrador at full gallop a lot of weight but less speed. I couldn’t dodge fully in case he dodged too and hit me full on so I just pulled my knees in and got a glancing blow rather than full force. Even that was a chart and a half so a full hit must have been impressive. It’s when the thundering of their feet on the ground sounds like a pair of racehorses at full gallop that you know you’re in trouble! I think we got to know each other after it happened so that may be why I don’t have the full story. But yeh. Blimey. Ouch.

We had a lab. Still hunting but, only retrieving, so less pace. But the real hunters, too intelligent, too fast, and single-minded. When they are going? They are gone. My little one, the culprit, is oddly cattish. Lies like a cat on the top of the sofa. Paws at me like a cat.

When you are bored, search ankle on roughseas, should give you the whole graphic story.

Good luck tonight – at least our much-needed rain should have gone through. Bye bye for another months, I suppose.
And with regard to all those Olympians and Paralympians – they don’t write and have to promote their books as well. They may have other sponsorship commitments, but they aren’t about there scrambling for them too 🙂
I suppose you were composing this post as you chucked…
x hugs x

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